


Our Happy Ending

by michaelLemieux



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M, Oops, it was supposed to be more slashy than this, lots of Michael, mainly Michael, my heart spells Alistair with an 'i' and you can deal with it, spoilers: it's not happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 22:22:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3626448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michaelLemieux/pseuds/michaelLemieux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael's story has only one ending. There is no Free Will. There is no escape. Only the visceral reality of an exercise in futility.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, you're going to have questions going in, going through, and coming out of this one, but if by the end you managed to have read the whole thing, you have my utmost respect. And are also entitled to shouting at me. Sorry. Please read anyways, despite the author's awkward and not at all encouraging notes.

Michael is a complex creature, to put it lightly. He refuses to explain. He won’t tell me why we’re here, or why he built this awful place. He is merely silent and contemplative. In his slumber he sometimes cries out against himself and God and me. He insists he remembers not the dreams that bring out such reactions, and I cannot decipher them myself without an image of his mind.

The walls here are slick and gorged. Both my pain and my brother’s feed it to the brim each second. It was a prison made for one and two is nearly too much for it to handle. Yet, instead of weakening or bursting, the thing itself is growing. A rupture would be a happy catastrophe, but I am not willing to lend myself again to the Cage to make it happen.

He pushes me away at every chance, wailing on about nothing in particular. Well, nothing I can make out, anyways. This Cage is his making, and this fate was of his devising for me. I don’t think he ever imagined he would be thrown in together beside his brother.

For all his wanderings in time, I suppose he never bothered to look into the future. Or he was too scared to.

He asked me once what I thought of Hell. We were young and still locked away in the Silver City, peering down over different bars to catch a glimpse of the horrid creatures that writhed in Purgatory and Hades. I gave him an answer, but he would not offer one to me in return.

He has always been inscrutable in that fashion. Never offering a thought of his own. All the answers he’s held, and his eternal safety in the knowledge he knows all. Why would he explain to the doubtful likes of me that which he knows for certain, or that which he knows I will find out in time, without him.

I had once tried to evade this all-knowing silence that took over him when asked questions. A prepared answer had been all I was ever given before, but I had foolishly thought that I would break his silence now.

“Michael,” I had started, innocently batting my many eyes at him and smiling demurely, “Do you know what would happen to me if I disobeyed?”

It was not perhaps one of my more subtle inquiries, but my goal was not subtly.

“Yes, brother, I know,” he answers, turning to face me now where before he had been looking off into the distance.

I batted my eyes again and pressed along his side, caressing his skin and teasing the corner of his heart-mouth.

“Then… tell me what would happen?”

He took himself out of my grip then and shook his head. He spoke to me no further and would not respond to my callings thereafter.

I soon learned what happened when I disobeyed. Michael too payed for this slight when he cast me out of Heaven, shouting hateful things he thought would make my fall easier.

Hate was indeed an easy emotion to cultivate and project. It was expected of me, and the other Fallen surely had no problem using it gratuitously themselves.

However, I am too prideful to let that unctuous emotion taint my Grace. My actions are fueled by my pride as my brother very well knows. It is prudent however to keep that information between us. Hate is the perfect screen.

 

**“Lucifer.”**

 

Hands startlingly cross my skin with a sudden fire that scorches my cold being.

“What is it?” I ask blandly, moving a hand over one of his.

The burn is one I’m used to by now, but in this place it is not a pleasurable feeling like it once was.

“I cannot… I cannot get us out,” he whispers.

I push him away and turn my back to him. He has said this before. He has also said that this is a lie. I stopped listening to him ages ago, and I will not start listening to his ravings now.

He slithers between my wings, pressing himself against my skin, oversensitized and raw, licking at me with his mouths. He trusts his tongues more than he trusts his eyes, and this is his way of assuring himself I’m still here with him. His hands join with many of mine, the free ones roaming over the rest of me.

It’s Hell to feel him touch me like this.

His warmth used to be a blessing, pure and loving, but now he’s been too tainted with faith and knowledge. He doesn’t hate himself, or me, he’s incapable of it, but this is no longer love. This is torture. For the both of us. It’s all he’s been doing since he awoke from the dreams. The dreams that torture you with yourself, twist and warp until you are your own perfect torturer.

I would have praised it had I not been under it’s effect for so long.

It was difficult to break out of, but the cycle is not perfect. As nothing ever is, and Michael may no longer have control of the Cage now that he is in it, but he is it’s creator and can be it’s destroyer if he pleases, which he doesn’t.

 

**This is our happy ending.**

 

 


	2. The Illusion of Free Will

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bulk of the story lies here. Here also is the art for the story which coincides with this chapter's gruesome beginning: http://everysaint.tumblr.com/post/114773137399

“I don’t think you understand the gravity of your situation,” Michael murmurs, stroking a thumb over the rebellious angel at his mercy. “You disobeyed, you know that. But do you know what happens to those who lie to me about it?”

The angel whimpers and shakes their head, trapped in a vessel pumping him full of adrenaline to keep him awake. Michael had forced him to physically manifest his wings, and threaded them up with bone needles, hanging them from the high ceiling of the church. Stained glass cast long coloured shadows over the floor and the flayed back of the angel.

Michael twirls the athame dagger between his fingers, pacing calmly before the angel.

“You know what I want. It’s a simple answer to a simple question: Where is Lucifer?”

The angel moans and tosses their head back, shuddering as the fish hooks in their every muscle tug and grind, the rust on the hooks worse than salt in a wound.

“I don’t know anything, Michael, I swear,” the angel begs.

“No,” Michael interrupts sharply. “You’re lying to me again. I know you know something.”

His features slide into something more compassionate, but the unblinking eyes and fake smile send shivers down the angel’s spine.

“Anything you can tell me will help. _And_ it will stop your suffering. Just tell me.”

The angel shakes their head again and Michael sighs. He sheathes the dagger in a holster at the base of his back, dropping to a crouch before the other angel and producing from an inner jacket pocket a vial of white sticks.

“Do you know what these are?” he asks softly, shaking the vial in the face of the prisoner.

The angel doesn’t look up, his arms starting to shake from keeping them held up against the hooks in the hope of some slack.

Michael smiles maliciously and rounds the angel’s side to the left wing suspended on wire thread. He picks a large flight feather and plucks at the wing in that spot until the quill’s base is exposed. Slowly, he pulls out the feather and removes the stop of the vial. Holding the wing still, he steadily shoves the stick of hardened salt into the quill socket, calm and unhurried as though this were merely a mundane chore. The angel lets out a choked groan and shudders against the hooks and thread. Ignoring this, Michael drives the salt stick in another inch and the wound is opened further by the sharp end of the stick sinking deeper into the quill socket.

“Just kill me…”

Michael scoffs at the idea and forces the rest of the stick into the wing just under the skin and after it the feather again just to make sure the salt stayed put, nestled in the muscle and sinew of the angel’s wing.

“Kill me...” they repeat, voice shaken. “I’ll never tell you…”

Michael is before the face of the young angel in a second, grabbing hold of it and forcing the angel’s gaze onto him.

“So you do know.”

The look of absolute horror on the angel’s face is all the answer Michael needs and their eyes roll back, body sagging in defeat against the hooks.

Michael smiles and takes his time to continue the salting process with both wings until all the flight feathers had been taken out and replaced. Then, he produces a hand held cheese grater and disappears behind the bloody feathers.

The angel lets out a long wail of torment as he feels the effects of the grater on his Achilles tendon. He screams and thrashes, the rust of the hooks grating on his muscles, burning and itching all at once, causing him to squirm more as Michael worries away at his ankles, in turn increasing the pain and frustration of the hooks. Michael takes his time grating away layer after layer of the Achilles tendon until it snaps and curls up towards the calf, tearing away from the skin and flesh. He silently starts work on the other ankle and the angel whimpers and cries through it all.

“Are you ready to tell me now, or shall we continue?” Michael asks, slipping his long fingers between the hooks laid into the angel’s shoulders, massaging the muscles there.

The angel chokes and shudders.

“N-never,” they force out.

Michael nods and slides his hands away from the angel’s shoulders, leaving several white postules on the skin. He leans in to the angels ear and whispers to him, “Those are jigger fleas I just put into your skin. Do you know what they do? They will eat away at your flesh, lay eggs, and infect you.” Michael strokes his hands along the arms of the angel and as they whimper under the soft touch, more marks appear where the jigger fleas now were.

The angel tenses and writhes, feeling the tiny bugs worming around in his skin.

Michael stands and rubs his hands over the angel’s wings, adding more and more jiggers. Then he calmly rounds the angel’s prone form and crouches before him again.

“I’m going to leave you to the jiggers for a while, alright?” he says cheerily. “I’ll be back when the necrosis has started.”

  
  


True to his words, Michael returns to the abandoned church nearly a month later. By this time, gangrene has begun to set in in the angel’s skin and wings, his blood boiling with infection and skin teeming with insects ready to make the infestation in his skin worse.

Michael crouches before the tortured angel, and pulls off a fistfull of flesh off a festering, decayed arm. He grinds the brittle flesh into powder and shakes it out onto the wings of the angel like he’s brushing flour off his hands.

“This is pointless,” Michael imparts impartially. “I’ll get the information I need from you one way or another. I’ve taken my time with the extraction, but it’s all going to be over soon.”

He sighs and leans closer to press his cool cheek to that of the fevered angel before him.

“Just tell me where Lucifer is cowering,” Michael murmurs, nuzzling cheeks with the battered angel. “All your pain will end then. I promise.”

The angel shivers angruishedly, and slumps as much as he can against Michael, giving in his weight to the hooks, no longer aware of the pain. He silently thanks Michael’s mercy for this reprieve.

“But only then.”

The angel heaves dryly onto Michael’s shoulder as the pain comes flooding back, tears rolling down their cheeks anew. They choke and sob, but speak nothing of importance to Michael.

With an impassive face, Michael straightens and kicks the angel square in the chest. The impact causes the angel’s weight to fall harshly against the hooks and the room fills with their agonized screams. Michael watches as they wail and attempt to straighten themselves, but he halts their progress by slamming his foot into their chest again and maintaining the unrelenting weight. A few of the hooks pop out of the necrotic flesh and the others pull and tear at the muscles and skin.

Michael holds still the angel by pressing him into the hooks, and removes from his jacket, a crowbar. The curved end is sharpened to hard steel points and Michael shifts his stance on the angel so that his swing will hit its mark. With foot on the angel’s shoulder, Michael swings down the bar like a club and hits the angel under the ribs. The pointed teeth dig into the flesh just below the ribs, and Michael grips the crowbar hard and pulls up, securely lodging the crowbar’s hook behind the ribs.

“Speak now, or lose your ribs,” Michael warns coldly.

He allows for a moment of silence, before shifting his weight again and pushing down. The first three ribs fracture and break, like branches pulled off a tree. Michael manages to prise one from the cage itself and out into the air.

The inhuman screeching would surely have been heard for miles, were they not in a sealed church from which no light or sound would be seen or heard.

Michael shakes out his fingers in a mockery of human fatigue and goes after the rest of the ribs, ripping and tearing them from the angel’s chest. First the left side, and then the right until organs and muscle are barely clinging to what’s left of the angel’s chest.

The fallen angel continues to weep and cry, yet through all this they have never called out for help, or asked for mercy.

That is until Michael moves in with the athame dagger to sever the angel’s hair.

It strikes the angel what Michael is intending, and they start at last to beg.

“No!” they cry. “No, Michael, please, no! I will not endure that, please!”

Michael raises an eyebrow and listens to the pleas. He hears no offers of information, and he hears still no cries for help. He tightens his fist around the long strands of what previously would have been beauteous hair, and begins to shear it from the angel’s skull.

The angel lets out a screech and at long last screams for Lucifer to save them. They be and plead, offering allegiance and loyalty. The angel speaks of Lucifer familiarly and fondly, with none of the respect Lucifer would have gotten from an angel of this Choir had they been in Heaven. It was obvious to Michael that Lucifer had either denounced his title or was intimate with this angel.  

Thus incensed, Michael continues to sever hair, more viciously than before, and the angel continued its cries, but to the dismay of both, Lucifer did not appear.

When Michael has shorn all of the hair from the angel’s head, they have fallen silent, and only tears spill over fevered cheeks.

“He hides in the human city of Los Angeles. He thought it,” the angel chokes and sniffles. “He thought it poignant.”

Michael exhales and kneels before the angel.

He cups the nearly scalped skull and presses together their foreheads, smiling softly. The angel no longer feels pain, but it is still broken and torn apart.

“Thank you,” Michael breathes. “I will end your suffering now.”

Michael kisses the cheek of the angel he tortured for so long. He slowly mends the body of the angel, pulling their ribs back together, and healing the decayed and invaded flesh. He removes the hooks in one fell swoop, the angel dropping like a corpse into his arms. Michael holds the angel to his chest and pets his spine like one would a dog.

“I’m so sorry I had to teach you the true nature of my brother. But he never would have been yours. He was never anyone else’s. Not even God’s,” Michael confides in the angel, whispering softly these things that he’d never said aloud before.

“But don’t worry about that now, angel. I’ll sing thee to thy rest.”

Michael sings the death hymn that had been sung throughout the whole Battle of Heaven. It was a hymn to dead soldiers, and to the fortitude of the survivors. Michael’s voice is beautiful, and he sings the hymn like no other ever has or will. But there is a mockery in his tone and his fiery blade swings through the air on the last ‘Alleluia’.

The body of the fallen angel lights like dead grass in a forest fire and is reduced to ash within minutes.

Michael kneels again to pray, and vows to carve the name of this angel into the flesh of the Morning Star, so he would forever remember the angel he did not save.

The name is not the first, and Michael is sure it is not to be the last, but when he finds the Serpent, Lucifer, he will teach them all to his brother.

With the scourge of his rebel angels who shall know his true alliances.

  
  


Michael clears up the used space and returns it to the broken down church it was when he arrived.

There’s no need to stay here any longer, so he flies to Los Angeles where it is night, and the city is teeming with life. A myriad of lights temporary blind Michael, but he looks past them and throughout the whole city by simply assuming the vantage point of his true form, stories above the skyline and buildings. It’s a dangerous move, but he has the ability to withstand any opponent.

In the instant he finds where Lucifer is hiding, a call comes to him from Heaven. It’s faint, but insistent and familiar. Michael briefly considers ignoring the call and going after Lucifer, but he knows that this is the call he’s been waiting for.

Michael looks again at the congregation of Fallen around Lucifer’s location, the streets squirming in the oily presence of the demonic masses, before turning away and returning to Heaven. Abandoning, for a moment, his hunt.

He has time. He can afford to wait to move onto the next step of his plan.

“Castiel, what is it?” Michael asks upon his return, brushing feathers with the young angel in greeting.

“Dean Winchester has been taken to Hell by Lilith’s hounds,” Castiel informs him urgently.

Michael is not surprised by this. He knew Dean would need to be in Hell, just like he knew which angel to target for his information. He maintains his composure, however, nods and looks  over Castiel taking in several new details regarding his younger brother. The look on his face is one of real concern, the edges of feathered wings adorning Castiel’s back are blackened with soot and carefully hidden, Castiel’s particular reluctance to look into Michael’s eyes which has before been an easy and readily committed gesture, and lastly the still smoking soles of Castiel’s feet.

“You’ve been making attempts on your own,” Michael observes, quiet and cold, always a dangerous combination in the Prince.

Castiel swallows and nods, no longer hiding the signs as well as he could.

“Yes. He has been taken in by Alistair. I could not sit by. I am sorry, the information was delayed by myself in my frantic and thoughtless attempts to save him on my own,” Castiel admits soft and humbled, angry that he failed on his own.

Michael smiles softly, not as angry as he thought he would be. He always had a soft spot for Castiel. He steps closer and wraps his significantly larger wings around Castiel’s body, wrapping him up in his arms and smiling against him.

“I forgive you, Castiel,” Michael admits generously. “I will help you retrieve your charge. You have done a good job watching over him for me.”

Castiel nods into Michael’s torso and nuzzles into his embrace. He’s reserved around Michael at the best of times, never as unrestricted and open as he was with Lucifer. But those were happier times and so, so long ago. Now, however, pressed to his brother’s chest, with the promise of rescuing his charge, he feels that he can relax. Under Castiel’s calm state of mind his wings flush the colour of Michael’s grace and push against Michael fondly.

Michael strokes a feather and idly thinks about how much Castiel would hate him for what he had just done to a pair of wings like his. Would Castiel weep and beg for answers? Would he curse Michael’s name and attempt to break free of Michael’s grip?

Michael smiles at the thought. He had known that Castiel would be influenced by Dean Winchester. He had not thought it would be something that would show itself so soon, but he was very happy that the influence had been in this way. The thought of Castiel with a free will was titillating. Almost as much as the memories of Lucifer’s younger days, when rebellion had merely been a seed planted in his mind and he had been so wild and free, taking Michael to forbidden lands and tempting them to all sorts of wicked pleasures. Michael had no better memories.

Castiel squirms in Michael’s embrace and the Prince comes back to himself, realizing that he’d been gripping onto Castiel too harshly.

“My apologies,” Michael murmurs distractedly.

“Let’s go get Dean Winchester, shall we?” he invites more lucidly, eyes bright at the thought of battle.

Castiel nods and follows Michael wordlessly to the gate, fretting the whole way about the lack of reinforcements.

Michael opens the gate to Hell with ease and strides right in. No demon nears him, or speaks, or even looks at the Viceroy of Heaven walking amongst them, Castiel following timidly behind his brother. The Prince sniffs out his vessel’s bloodline and smiles brightly to Castiel’s charge bent over, covered in blood, not all the soul’s, elbows deep in a soul on the rack. Behind him is Michael’s favorite _true_ demon, Alistair, goading and encouraging Dean to greater sins and a better high.

Alistair looks up and grins unnaturally at Michael.

With a smile in return, Michael takes Dean by the shoulder, burning a mark into him and his body on Earth, tying them together once more, and in the process cleansing Dean’s soul and body. He passes the shaking man into Castiel’s arms and tells him to take Dean back and set him on his way. Castiel grips Dean tightly to his chest and raises him up through the pits of Hell back into his body.

When Castiel is gone, Michael turns to Alistair.

“I see you took care of him like I asked,” Michael compliments, referring to a deal made with Lilith and Alistair, that his good friend and apprentice would take any of the lineage of Cain and Abel into his care.

Alistair nods and adds, “And I broke him and the seal in turn, also as you asked.”

Michael stood stoic in the light of this new information. He had not said anything about breaking a seal to Alistair. Michael held the surprise from his eyes and decided he would dwell on it later.

“Very well done,” he covers, smiling again at the demon before him.

Michael relished the sense of sickness that came with looking on demons such as Alistair. It was the same as smelling food while throwing up. Anyone would want to avert their eyes to Alistair’s true form, but not because it was horrific or disgusting, but merely because it was unnerving. It was impossible for most creatures to look a demon dead on without wanting to die inside and out.

To Michael, though, they were beautiful. His finest works. Crafted from the best of clays, and brought down to ash and dirt. He loved Fallen as much as Demons, but Demons were purer in his mind. Especially ones like Alistair that were pure, absolute demons, born and bred in Hell. Not once human, nor even once another creature. No, Alistair was one of the last, pure, demons. A creature that was the opposite of any angel, and the black sludge to any clear water.

Alistair flicked a tongue against Michael’s cheek and asked without words what all the thinking was about.

Michael smiles, licking his teeth, and bites the tongue that touched him, grinning pitch and tar. This tongue tangles with Alistair’s forked one and the angelic saliva burns the demon’s flesh.

“Love it when you play like a cheater,” Alistair jibes from another of his mouths.

“More fun for me, more challenge for you,” Michael returns in kind. “Unfortunately, I haven’t any time to play today. Far too much to do.”

Michael releases the viscous tongue from his teeth and kisses the tip of it, licking some of his spit from where it is eroding the muscle.

“Then hop to it, darling dearest,” Alistair pompously instructs, waving a six fingered hand.

“I’ll do just that,” Michael promises, licking again another sizzling patch onto Alistair’s face.

The demon rolls his eyes like a put-upon housewife and watches Michael go, regretting now not fighting to keep Dean. He would be hard pressed to find another like that. Ah, but he would have his fun when he did.

Dean Winchester wakes up in a graveyard of trees, the forest surrounding him completely dead. Michael watches through the pine coffin and dirt as Dean fights his way up and out. Michael hovers close to him as he walks miles down the road to find the gas station conveniently empty but still stocked and cool. While Dean is going through the store, looting it for what he needs, Castiel catches up with Michael.

The Prince extends a wing out to Castiel, catching him and pulling him in close.

“I want you to watch over him, alright?” Michael instructs softly.

Below them, the television and radio flicker on. Dean turns them both off, and with a look of unease, heads for the salt.

Michael puts a finger over his lips and smiles at Castiel, turning his head back to Dean.

“Hello, Dean,” Michael whispers to him.

Dean stops and looks around, but then goes back to putting down the salt lines.

Michael chuckles, and puts one of his hands on Castiel, gesturing with another that he should engage Dean.

“Dean Winchester,” Castiel addresses, causing the windows to shake and Dean to clutch his head. “I am Castiel. You are to be under my charge by the orders of--”

Michael put his hand over Castiel’s mouth before he could finish and shook his head slowly, clucking his tongue. Castiel’s brow furrows but he nods, and turns back to Dean, speaking from a different spot on his vocal chords.

“Do not be afraid. I will not harm you. I… I raised you from Perdition, Dean. That mark on you is… mine. It ties you to your body and will remain until there is no longer a need for a bonding agent.”

This time the glass windows burst and explode at Dean who crashes to the ground with the shards. Castiel frowned and looked to Michael for an answer, but Michael only shrugged. He turns Castiel’s attention to Dean in the phone booth attempting to make contact with some of his relatives. Pulling his Grace into a denser form so that he could sit beside Dean in the stolen car, Michael draws Dean’s eyes over to the abandoned vehicle. Dean did what he did best and hijacked the car. Michael only helped a little with the sticky gears.  

Sitting this close to him, Michael could feel his vessel’s every whim and twitch. The way the sting in his knuckles made him squirm, more so than the women in the magazine he’d picked up. He could feel in Dean how the burning ache of the new brand in his shoulder went straight through him and into his soul. Of course, it did. It was the only thing holding him together. His soul and body melded together again by that one mark.

Michael traces the raised skin that so reminded him of the scars on the backs of guilty believers who thought flagellating themselves would bring them closer to Christ. Dean shudders as he drives and almost looks at Michael beside him, but refrains.

Michael revels in Dean’s urge to deepen the wounds on his knuckles. The need to bleed and bruise and regain all the lovely scars that Michael had wiped from his body when he was resurrected. A special brand of torture.

Made just for his other form.

With a last chuckle, Michael leaves Dean to his driving and returns to Castiel’s side.

“We have a few things to take care of, don’t we, Castiel?” Michael murmurs, kissing Castiel’s side with one of his mouths.

Castiel nods, and goes with Michael. The Prince leads them to his own realm in Heaven, the one only Michael knows about, and to which only Michael and God can grant access to. Michael knows that even God Himself looks away from this place. Turns to it a blind eye and deaf ear. It is a privilege only Michael, and the angels he has brought here, knows.  

It looks much to Castiel like Earth does. A mass of teeming cells and atoms that are bound together by energy and will to take on shapes and forms that seem their own. Some of these configurations of particles look familiar. Grass and rocks, trees and a brook that softly splits the grass into uneven sections.

Michael takes on again a more compact size, and pulls himself into a more humanly shaped visage. His wings reduce to two, as well his arms, and his mouths become one and shift down to the newly human skull that forms. Michael’s halo slaps heavily against his vague skin, taking the form of a collar and pressing into his falsely soft flesh. Michael smiles at his now only pentadactyl hands and reforms them only so as to keep his second thumbs. He likes his second thumbs.

Castiel takes after his elder brother and reduces his size, but he has not any changes to make to his angelic visage as he is already in a humanoid shape, for being of a lower class of angels. He is a part of the last choir to be created before humans. The latest revision to the angelic design before the human shape was chosen as a subsect of his own. A shape without wings and a halo, with also now hair and nails and distinct feminine and masculine features to set them apart in sex.

Michael was the first angel to be created and every angel after that was a variation upon him. Any attribute that the other choirs had, Michael had so also, for his design was reduced upon and reduced upon until the colourful Thrones were created and God began to add to His creations as well as take away. There were several thousand lesser variations of Michael, but only one that resembled him closely enough to truly be called his brother.

Lucifer was created without Michael’s shadows, and thus seemed to burn more brightly, even if he was without Michael’s heat as well. Lucifer had not Michael’s limited voice, and had not his piercing gaze. Michael had been the first thing Lucifer saw with his own eyes, and God the second.

The first thing Lucifer saw, he took for granted, assumed was his own.

But the second he learned to love and cherish above all.

Michael was happy to have a companion in the beginning. Of course, he would have been happy having only God, but there was something about having a lesser being like himself around that was more comforting than an all knowing being like his Father. Someone he could admire God alongside, someone who knew as little and as much as he.

However, there was one thing of Michael’s that God had neglected to retain in Lucifer’s creation:

Michael’s faith was something that Lucifer also lacked.

Lucifer still loved and believed God and what he was told, yes, of course he did, but it was not a loyalty born of absolute faith, it was a loyalty born of love.

God, seeing how Lucifer and Michael were different in these ways, saw that He had not so much made a mistake, but presented Himself an opportunity. The rest of the angels that were created (based off of Michael’s original design, but none such as Lucifer born without faith) were the stepping stones of an idea that was forming in the mind of the Creator. Each Choir was becoming more and more like his ideal creation. Something that didn’t need orders from Him to survive. Something that would think and grow on it’s own. This quality was one that grew and grew among the lesser Choirs, and God finally put a name to this intangible idea that was spreading like wildfire.

He would create deliberately in Humans, the lowest species of angel, a free will like His own. The angels were alive enough in this manner to be unique and have the potential for true growth in spirit, but God wanted a species that would grow exponentially.

He created his first humans, and showed them to His beloved angels. Many were amazed and happy that they would have wingless counterparts with which to share the Earth, but Lucifer was not happy.

God had found this a curious distaste on His second son’s part. He had gotten the idea for free will from him after all. He was different, of course, but being born without faith was something he had inspired in God when creating the humans. The only difference, was that God had given the humans a chance to achieve Faith.

Lucifer had no such chance.

 

“Castiel. Come here, will you?” Michael asks softly. “I think we should speak.”

The Prince seats himself leisurely on a large rock overlooking the small brook that cleaves his grassy plain in two, and Castiel comes to sit beside him.

“Is this about Dean Winchester?” Castiel asks softly, a touch of apprehension in his voice.

“It is…” Michael leads, trailing off so as to let Castiel sweat a bit. Silence was always something that loosened Castiel’s tongue around Michael.

Fortunately, this was not a time that Michael needed to hear something from Castiel that he would not have rather said under the threat of silence.

“You’re sweet on him, aren’t you?” Michael asks with a human smile, pulling one of Castiel’s hands into his lap and stroking it with his thumbs.

Castiel’s head tilts off to one side, his brow furrowing and bright eyes boring into Michael as though staring hard enough will make Michael’s words clearer to him.

Michael takes in the look on Castiel’s face and his smile widens a touch.

“Oh, Castiel. I mean that you are more loving of him than you are of other humans. Am I wrong?”

Castiel’s Grace pulses and he turns his face away from Michael, who laughs heartily. The Prince presses his face to Castiel’s throat and licks his jaw.

“Do not worry, Castiel, I am fond of him too. There is no reason for such a scared expression, as cute as it is.”

Castiel slumps a small amount, but the tension is still in his form with his brother so close to him. Michael is never this close to Castiel without a nefarious purpose. Whether it be to tempt and seduce Castiel, or to rage and rant as if he were mad.

But this time, Michael does not make a move to do either. It scares Castiel almost more than if Michael had begun beating him, as he had heard accounts of his elder doing.

“I’m bringing him home, Castiel.”

The sudden break in silence shocks Castiel, and he flinches as if Michael had slapped him across the cheek. It doesn’t register to Castiel that Michael had said something and not hit him, until Michael shifts his hands where they still lie curled around of Castiel’s.

“Who?” Castiel asks almost shakily.

The Prince is silent for a long moment before he moves. He shifts one leg over and between Castiel’s, his hands still holding onto the young angel’s fingers and faces him dead-on. He extends his chin and pushes his lips to the angel’s. Castiel knows what this is, and he knows how to respond, but he still only kisses back timidly. However, before it becomes something more passionate, Michael pulls away and stares Castiel down.

“Lucifer.”

The mention of that one name brings Castiel’s whole body to a shudder and he again with wide eyes stares at Michael to discern the answers to his questions.

“I’m not leading you on this time, Castiel, I mean it. I’m bringing him home.”

Castiel shakes his head in slow motion like he’s forgotten how to breathe and function save that one action. A mad grin spreads over Michael’s face and his eyes light up for the first time since Castiel served under him in the Fall.

His Grace fluxuates again and he sputters, shifting and fidgeting heedlessly under this crushing realization.

“But… but you said that you would only attempt that when the seals were being broken… We… we didn’t get to him in time?”

Michael frowns so suddenly at Castiel that the young angel flinches again, trying to backpedal.

“I mean, this is wonderful news! I… I have missed him…”

Michael nods and the smile returns. He brushes two of his thumbs along Castiel’s jaw and looks him over.

“You should look into securing your vessel, Castiel. Perhaps next time we meet it will be through human faces,” he intones fondly, kissing Castiel’s forehead.

Castiel nods, letting Michael’s body fall away from his own before standing. He bows deeply to his older brother and Heaven’s General smiles, blowing him a kiss.

When Castiel is gone, Michael steps over the brook and lays down on the grass. He looks up into the nothingness of the void above him and thinks about what his young brother had said.

_“...you said you would only attempt that when the seals were being broken…”_

Michael had no memory of ever telling Castiel before this that ‘seals’ were being broken, or that he would attempt to bring Lucifer home. Alistair had said something like that as well.

_“...broke him and the seal, in turn. Also as you asked.”_

What were these ‘seals’ that they were speaking of? There was no such thing that Michael was privy to, and Michael was privy to everything. There shouldn’t be any surprises to him at this point, he knew everything he needed to know. So why was this coming out of the woodwork now?

Michael sat up sharply. The fact that he doesn’t know what they’re talking about shouldn’t alarm him. The fact that the orders and information seem to be coming from him should be the more pressing matter. Who would dare to impersonate the Prince? Who would know enough to relay a command through Alistair to make sure it got to Dean? Who would know that Castiel would have been the one to look over Dean, and that Michael would tell him about freeing Lucifer when telling Castiel had been his first time ever airing those words?

Michael didn’t know who he was dealing with, but he needed to know now.

First, he confronted his knowledge of who knew about his affinity with Alistair. The list was limited to Alistair himself, Castiel, Lucifer, Lilith, and Gabriel. He then thought of who could possibly have found out about his plans to recover Lucifer. Alistair was a possibility, but he didn’t have any stake in this. He would love to see the Morning Star return to Heaven, then he could take over and return Hell to it’s former glory. Castiel seemed to have prior knowledge of the events, but he wouldn’t have said something to Michael if he didn’t wholeheartedly believe that it was Michael who had given him the information. Lucifer could not know or else he would have come after Michael already. Playing coy with tricks and espionage was not Lucifer’s preferred methods. Lilith had no stake in this either. She loves her master being in Hell with her and not far away in Heaven where she would never see him. That left only…

Gabriel.

Michael searches Heaven for the young Arch, but finds no trace of him. Gabriel would certainly be tricky enough to pull this, and a good enough impersonator of him to fool Castiel and Alistair. Gabriel knew of Alistair and Michael’s connection through one unfortunate incident where Michael forgot to ‘lock the door’. He could have found out about the pact with Lilith through the hateful woman herself. She would love the chance to exploit his tricks if he needed something from her. Especially something like that juicy piece of gossip.

That only left how he could have found out about his plans to return Lucifer to his rightful home in the clouds.

“Rhemiel!” Michael calls as he strides quickly out of his territory. He promptly discards his unopposing shape and returns to his natural one.

Within moments of calling for him, Rhemiel dives down from the sky and lands Gracefully next to Michael.

“Yes, sir?” he asks.

“Fetch Zachariel for me and let the ranks know I’m leaving again.”

Rhemiel squirms as he follows Michael along to the armory, taking note in his head what he needs to do.

“B-but you’ve only just got back!” he squeaks timidly. “We worry when you’re gone all the time like this, Michael!”

The Prince stops moving as soon as his name leaves Rhemiel’s lips, and the angel seems to catch his own mistake and covers his mouths hurriedly. He looks away from Michael and tries to subtly make himself smaller.

“Don’t use that name,” Michael hisses. “And just do it.”

Rhemiel nods shakily and  hurries away. Michael’s gaze glances over Rhemiel’s scarred back, and remembers when he did that. There are many backs like Rhemiel’s.

Michael keeps walking and is putting on his armor when Zachariel walks in.

“Sir, you wanted to see me?” he asks.

Michael nods. “I’m going to need you to do a few things for me in the near future. I first want you to find the locations of all my vessels and let me know where they are.”

Zachariel doesn’t wait for more instructions, and leaves as soon as Michael is finished speaking to do as he’s told.

Michael finishes plating his chest and leaves the armory with lance and sword. He can usually find any of his brother’s just by the taste of their Grace, and he’s had more than enough chances to taste Gabriel’s. He flies down to Earth and looks about the surface for Gabriel. His brother could be hiding his Grace all he wants, but Michael could always sniff out his siblings.

One of Michael’s tongues slither out to taste the wind and he catches onto Gabriel, his head snapping in that direction. It’s a fast trip and Michael is in Gabriel’s presence once again.

It’s a crowded flat that Michael seems to have appeared in. The bustle of people around him, loud music, and flashing lights would have disorientated a human, but Michael was no human, and if the antics and illusions of Lucifer himself could not fool the Prince’s eye, than neither could Gabriel’s.

At the snap of his fingers the room clears, leaving a mountain of food on a table, and an alarmed-looking Gabriel, warily circling his brother. The ex-Archangel is armed with blade and Grace, glaring down the threat imposing on his safe house. There were no wardings on the place, but Michael assumed there would be from now on.

“Hello, Gabriel,” Michael begins, stepping forward experimentally and watching as Gabriel jumped back. “It has been a while since we have spoken.”

“Yeah, because you’re here to talk in full armor. I’m not buying your Girl Scout cookies, Michael,” Gabriel shoots back, twisting his blade and sidestepping carefully.

Michael mirrors the motion in the opposite direction as he says, “Only precautions in case our talk goes south, brother.”

Gabriel continues their circle, shifting his weight every step and keeping his center of gravity low, just like Michael had taught him. He doesn’t speak for fear of giving something away, or, worse, giving Michael the satisfaction.

The Prince glances swiftly about the room, but sees no signs of a Bible anywhere, let alone the one that detailed the 666 seals. He found no mention of the 666 seals anywhere in Gabriel’s flat.

“Gabriel, what have you heard about the ‘seals’ to Lucifer’s ‘Cage’?” Michael asks, eyeing his brother carefully.

“It’s a crock,” Gabriel answers quickly. “Just a bible story.”

The Prince stares down the Messenger of God and takes another sudden step forwards. Gabriel jumps back again and hits the food table, toppling it and landing on the floor where he’s set upon by the intruder, his chest held down by another body’s weight.

Michael leans close to his brother’s face and studies it, one hand going to his throat as the others work to restrain him.

“I’d hate it if I had to hurt you, Gabriel,” he warns, invading Gabriel’s space far too much to be comfortable even for brothers who were once close. “We were once good friends and better brothers, I’d like to think we could continue that despite your betrayal,” he hums, stroking a thumb across his brother’s jaw.

“Eat dirt, Michael!” Gabriel spits, writhing under Michael’s immense weight.

Heaven’s Prince bares his teeth down at the deserter and his eyes harden threateningly. His hands constrict on Gabriel’s throat and hold his head still, facing Michael’s. The armor glows red hot and heavier with the flaring of Michael’s wings.

“Look into my eyes Gabriel and tell me that you know nothing of the seals,” he commands.

Borrowed hazel eyes meet Michael’s and Gabriel  repeats, “It’s a crock, Michael. You’re insane! The Seals were just a bible story made up by some cockamamie priest!”

Michael reads the truth in Gabriel’s eyes and he glowered, pulling off and letting his brother pick himself up off the ground.

“Thank you, Gabriel. You’ve been most helpful. I’ll be leaving now.”

Before Gabriel can protest, Michael is back in Los Angeles. He takes on a human visage like the one he had used in the church when he was extracting information. A leather jacket to hide his bulky weapons and armor, form-fitting jeans that are loose enough to move in as well as to cover the dagger strapped to his thigh. He wears soul crushing boots heavy enough to crack skulls, with steel toes and iron spikes. For all the limitations the human world has, there are some fun perks.

Michael pulls back his long blond hair into a bun at the base of his neck and simply walks the streets, headed towards the center of the demonic activity.

He thinks again about who would send out orders in his name, and who would know about Castiel and Alistair. He concludes that it must have been someone from the future. It was the only possibility given that there were no other viable leads. In that case, however, he can leave finding the culprit till later on. He should be more concerned now about what they said.

They told Castiel obviously, that he was going to free Lucifer, and also gave instructions to Alistair about breaking Dean. ‘Seals,’ they kept saying. ‘Seals.’

Something sparks in Michael’s memory. It’s been a very long time since he has read the Bible, but he seems to remember one of the earlier versions mentioning 66 seals. Or rather, 66 events that needed to occur for Lucifer to escape ‘the Cage’ and be freed onto Earth to start the apocalypse.

In that story, Lucifer was tossed into a Cage by Michael and locked there with 666  seals, of which only 66 needed to be broken in order to release Lucifer. There were six first seals that needed to be first in any line of seal breaking, and six final seals that absolutely had to be the 66th seal broken in freeing Lucifer. Any angel who had been in the Fall would have known that Michael took much more mercy on Lucifer than that. The Cage itself seemed something more akin to what a human born demon would have done to break another human soul, but nothing like a Celestial being’s line of interrogation.

It was utter bullshit.

Michael had always regarded the Bible as an early attempt by the leaders of Earth to lay down ‘God’s Will’ in a way that they would understand. Namely, a thousand metaphors for ‘be a good person’. They were given the commandments and miracles, and they had to go and fuck it up in the name of gaining more control over the masses for God. Michael had enjoyed the role they gave him, and the prayers, and rituals, but who needs a book two inches thick with a thousand variations to know how to listen to the words God whispers to you through the heart? When Michael weighed your soul in the hour of need, he looked not at how many protests you attended, or how many church hymns you sang. He looked for whether or not you were good. He looked into your heart and asked if you loved, or if you hated, and (foreseeing any special circumstances) that was how your soul was weighed on the scales of Saint Michael.

So where is all this talk of the seals coming from if they’re not real and subsequently known to be false?

Michael thinks it over and begins to revise his plans.

Lucifer was on Earth, causing mayhem and his Fallen were in Hell rotting. Lucifer never spent much time in Hell, that Michael knew. He frequented the place often enough to know when the ‘King’ was in and when he wasn’t. Lucifer had not set foot in Hell for over 200 years. The Fallen had started to suspect that the demons had something to do with it, or else that it had been Michael who had taken out their ‘kind and just’ leader.

He had seen the suffering of the angels in Hell. The way they burned and screamed. Some of them weren’t tortured by the molten ground and flame walls. Hell had not decided to torment them, only to let them stew in silence and stillness in the absence of their Father’s presence. They screamed questions at an empty throne and were driven mad by the endless nothing that was their Hell.

Michael had walked the chuckling grounds, and heard the coos of Hell nipping at the heels of the restless and paranoid. The place itself was sentient and it chose how you were to be made most miserable.

And yet, Lucifer had not experienced any of this torture. He stayed above it all, refusing to let it near or bother him. The other Fallen angels had none of the power that Lucifer had. He was second born, and the second most powerful angel of all the cohorts. Those who followed Lucifer were the Angels, the lowest Choir, and the weakest. Closest of their kind to having free will like the humans. They had been most numerous, and easily made up two thirds of the entire Host. Half of them went to Lucifer and so, a third of the angels fell.

Being of a lower Choir however, held many disadvantages in Hell. It meant they were weak. Weak enough to be stepped on by the indigenous inhabitants of Hell, and weak enough that the ground burnt their feet and gnawed at their ankles. They hadn’t the power to resist it, or protect themselves, and Lucifer offered them none of his. They were also powerless to leave Hell. It was humiliating for them to watch demons born of human souls fight their way back onto Earth, and be unable to do the same.

The original demons, the ones who were never human, had no interest in going to Earth, though they could have easily had they wished it. Instead they stayed in Hell to torment the angels that would be most bothered by it. They pulled at wings and burned feathers, rubbing sulfur into open cuts and watching it sizzle in angelic flesh like salt to a demon.

Hell was truly the worst place in Creation for a lower Choir angel like the ones that followed Lucifer. Michael helped every once in a while, but he was not cold like Lucifer was. Michael burned almost as hot as the ground, and he could only offer a distraction. Give the angels a brief reprieve from the torture while he indulged himself in Hellfire and pain.

Since Lucifer’s fall, Heaven became like a corporate business. Michael’s conscience was pulled a thousand ways to guide and send souls to the afterlife, and there were no longer any battles to be fought, or any foes to vanquish. He was dying of boredom, and like Dean loved his scars and the rush of pain from hunting that kept him alive, Michael, too, missed the rush of battle. So he indulged himself in times like these, under the pretense of helping the Fallen. He laid down on the ground and cut off all links to Heaven and Earth and the souls he was in charge of. Hell gladly swallowed him up for a while and gave him what he craved. Then Michael would walk out, aching pleasantly.

The Fallen thought this was a great sacrifice on his part, and always thanked him profusely for it.

If Michael himself had not known about the seals, then why was everyone taking them so damned seriously? Castiel clearly believed they were real, and that Lucifer was held in a cage in Hell, but Castiel had been to Hell once and not even for very long--

Michael’s train of thought screeches to a halt when he thinks of his latest visit to Hell. It had been such a noisy place as always, and crowded too, of course, but there was a corner. An empty corner far away from anyone else. He hadn’t noticed it before because there wasn’t a reason to, correct? But now it stood out in his mind. Even he himself, who had been through every part of Hell, had not been there. It was just out of sight. Just far enough away to be forgotten. The more Michael thought about it, the more he realized how much he had missed.

He was furious with himself. How could he miss something this huge for this long? Something breaks in his mind, and he realizes that he’d always known about that place being there, but had not given it another thought. No sort of creature would have the power to veil something like that from Michael except God Himself. The Prince had always had all the answers, but now it seemed he had none.

With a growl, he abandons L.A. for a second time, returning now to Hell. He strides swiftly through the congregations and conglomerations, some inhabitants shouting or speaking at him, and others knowing better. When it’s apparent that he’s headed there, even Hell itself pulls away. This furthers to infuriate Michael, because it is obvious that everyone but him was aware of the corner.

He reaches the edge of what seems to be the territory of this place. It’s a black hole of pain and torment. He feels it pulling at him even this far away, and the rest of Hell is at least another long mile away from here.

After a long, and slow step forward, the harsh teeth of the air dig into Michael’s Grace. It hurts in all the wrong ways, in all the ways that Michael needs it not to. It’s beyond physical pain, beyond everything he has ever felt, and it burrows and drills into his very being and pulls to surface every bad memory and regretted act that Michael has ever committed. Each step forward feels like his sole on a brother’s face, and every movement like a killing blow he wished he could take back.

The Prince stops and breathes in, regretting it instantly as the ravenous air crawls down his throat and suffocates him, reminding him of drowning in his own blood. Michael reels and falls to a knee, every thought of almost losing to another breaching the surface of his memory and tearing him down to that dark, horrid pit that has drug him out of every no-win situation he’s ever been in. He looks up and instead of seeing the writhing mass of Hell he sees the face of Death, looming behind another adversary that’s nearly killed him.

Michael releases a hoarse moan that breaks into wretched battle cry, breaking the thrall held on him in this place, and hurling himself backwards to the edge of it’s control. He screams his frustration at it, and hears screaming in return.

He freezes and his many eyes turn black in surprise.

There’s a faint pounding he hadn’t heard before, and a million screams for help, all in the same familiar voice. He thinks he can see a figure in the farthest corner that’s huddled and wailing, the walls seeming to have hungry eyes and mouths with which to gobble up the despair.

“Lucifer!” Michael screams desperately to the figure, and they look up, but then so do the walls, all their mouths and eyes focused on him. A thick fog envelops Michael’s brother and conceals him from the rest of Hell. Michael screams again, but the only echoes he hears are his own.

He charges the border yet again, but instead of being allowed to pass, he is thrown back by an invisible force. He tries again and again to reach his trapped brother, only to be sent back.

This time, his howl of frustration sounds around all of Hell, all of it shuddering under that angry power, and the inhabitants quaking with fear. Even Alistair feels a cold shiver, and he sets aside his razor to seek out Michael.

The Prince has dropped to his knees on the ground, and begun shouting at the mouth of Hell to tell him what that thing was. The only response he gets is the creaking of the ground and an echoed imitation of his own screams.

“ _It was not me!_ ” Michael screeches again, pounding his fists on the mouth of Hell. The ground creaks unhappily again and tries to worm away. They have never fought like this before, and it’s deeply upsetting the poor old creature. Michael would never act like this if he were in his right mind.

Alistair finds Michael and pulls him up to his feet. The angel shoves him away and only barely resists kicking at the mouth near his feet. That is certainly something he would never do unless provoked, or completely insane. Michael slumps and apologizes to the ground, letting Alistair lead him away silently.

Hell allows Alistair his own pocket, away from the noise, and it’s there that Michael is taken now. He can smell Dean in the air of this room, and he smirks.

“So this is where you kept him. Monopolized him,” Michael guesses.

Alistair smiles back and nods. “I only took him out to torture others. I didn’t need to use a gang to bring him down. As you never did either.”

Michael flushes under the compliment and stretches a wing out to graze Alistair’s forearm. The demon meets this feather with the backs of his knuckles, fondly knocking them on the quill.

The angel sighs, and Alistair takes a seat, knowing this is sure to be a long conversation and one that will require his whole attention.

“Alistair, what is in that corner?”

Nothing more needs to be said to understand which corner it is that Michael’s referring to. Alistair understands exactly what is meant.

“Ah. Yes, I was wondering when you would ask about that. Your finest work in my opinion.”

Michael frowns, setting a warm hand on Hell’s wall around them, silently apologizing again.

“My work?” he asks, turning to face his apprentice.

Alistair nods carefully, eyes narrowed.

“Yes. Yours. It was around the time that Azazel began his cult. You created that place and locked it to any but yourself. Throwing in that brother of yours.”

“I did all that?” he whispers.

It didn’t make any sense. His memory was perfectly whole and complete, yet he could not recall doing anything like that. He trusted Alistair, but even he could be mistaken in this. That left the question of who really did this, be it Michael in the future, or someone else in his guise from the past. Was it even really Lucifer that was in the cage there?

“Are you sure it was my brother?”

“As surely as he is the morning star, it was him,” Alistair replies nonchalantly.

“Is there anything else about that place that you could tell me?”

“Sometimes you can make out the words being screamed at you if you lay your ear to the wall. It looks like a mere corner, but I can assure you, it acts much more like a cage with a one way door. The only person who can go in and out I would assume be three people. You, the maker, Death, who is everywhere, and God. Quite a triumvirate, I wouldn’t think that Lucifer would reach out to any of you for his rescue, but I’ve heard him scream for all three. He even calls you by name. The one that even you forgot.”

Michael nods, troubled, and steps into an embrace with Alistair. Alistair’s flesh sizzles and burns, but it’s nothing in comparison to the shock of Michael hugging him. Yes, they had tortured together. Yes, they had slaughtered together. But this. This was affection, and not at all like the types of affection Alistair was actually comfortable showing. He could sharpen the blade so the cuts would hurt less, or leave loving scratches and bruises as appreciation, but never this sort of intimacy and affection. He accepts it all the same, for as much love as Michael shows him, and as powerful as he knows he is, there is no match between them and a confrontation would end horrifically.

“I’ll repay you for telling me this. Is there anything else?” Michael asks, pulling away.

“Nothing you don’t already know. Unless you’d like to hear about how I’ve used this new addition to my advantage?”

“Not today. But soon. When this is all over.”

Alistair shrugs it off and waves the angel out. “Then get to it. I’m sure the masses are squirming for your attention already.”

Michael smiles at him, leaving his territory and turning again in the direction of the Cage.

Pressing his ear to the junction of Hell and the Cage, he feels the vibrations of Lucifer’s voice, ringing against the wall. He shifts until he can hear it, and wilts as he’s too close to the Cage itself. It’s music to his ears to hear his brother again, but it’s not what he’d wanted to hear coming from his brother’s angelic lips. The begging and groveling, bargaining and pleading, the screams of anguish and hatred, promises of love and loyalty. He even heard prayer. Prayers to Saint Michael. He hadn’t heard such things in a very long time. An angel such as himself couldn’t really be bothered with that. He had one of his many other minds answering prayers.

But these were prayers that would never be heard. If Michael had not answered, then neither had Death, and God answered nothing these days.

Then Lucifer quiets.

“Why only this exit, brother? You know I cannot do that. I will not endure that. A thousand years of servitude and subservience, but ask not that of me.”

Michael’s heart breaks for his brother as it always had, but there was no saving him now. Michael himself could not reach inside, and he was supposedly the only one who could.

“ _ **Wait your turn.**_ ”

The whisper comes from the wall itself where Michael had just been pressed. He pulls back and gazes into one of the eyes.

“ _ **Your time will come, Redeemer. Wait. your. turn.**_ ”

Michael stares blankly as the eyes shift and shimmy, disappearing back into the wall. The Prince inhales and leaves Hell, returning again to Los Angeles.

 

The streets of L.A. were not busy at this time of day, but the demons that were about on these streets fled from Michael. He wasn’t in a vessel so he could not hide his Grace from the lesser demons. They spotted him from a mile away. It was extremely rare to see an angel on Earth and to see one without a vessel was even more rare and terrifying.

Michael sighs and looks over the demons, choosing one of them as his target. He moves quickly, giving the demon no time to run, and grabs him by the throat.

“Come with me,” the Prince growls, dragging the demon off into the darkness.

He latches onto the lesser demon’s stolen face and lets his Grace surface in the visage of his eyes. The demon freezes and can’t help but stare back as Michael makes contact with the trapped soul inside the vessel.

“If you want me to save you, I need your consent to enter this body,” Michael instructs to the soul, appearing to him a bright and warming light.

The soul is confused, but Michael presses him gently with a few tugs on the thoughts and the pieces click into place, causing the soul to happily cry out a ‘yes!’.

The demon screeches and writhes as Michael takes the body it is in, taking control of the demon, and sending the soul off to Heaven. The demon is pushed into the skin of the vessel and Michael hurriedly makes any necessary repairs. It’s definitely ill advised for him to take this vessel, seeing as it is not his, but it’s certainly not impossible. Especially for someone of Michael’s standing. He can take a vessel and leave it in better condition than when he arrived in it.

Besides, what’s a better guise for seeing Lucifer in than wearing the double skin of a possessed human?

Luckily for the rest of the demons in Los Angeles, they never realized an angel was in their midst. Undetected, Michael spread discord among the ranks as he moved further and further towards Lucifer. It was small things, news of the latest dead angel, whispers of Lucifer’s despondence and his sloth. Those who heard and those who listened whispered among others, and the rumors spread as swiftly as fire in hay.

Lucifer’s mind was as Michael’s, a collection of smaller parts that were controlled by his main conscience, but independent enough to not question the main brain for a verdict on every action. The both of them could be in a million places at once, having a million conversations, but their main focus could be on one target and still have absolute concentration.

It is what had made Michael such a fierce opponent. He could be fighting a thousand enemies, and fall for not a single trick or feignt. Lucifer chose not to weaponize his other minds, and instead gave them form. The illusions he taught Gabriel to produce in kind. The Archangels were the last species to have more than one consciousness. Angels had one, humans too. Occasionally, a human would have something close to an Archangels mind, but they were considered insane.

Michael could sense around him the tendrils of Lucifer’s Grace that investigated the rumors, looking for their source. Claiming to be friends, the lesser consciences of the devil asked about who said these things, and assured that they were false. Nothing of that sort had been confirmed, it was all just hearsay.

This did little to quell the rumors, but at least the demons and Fallen calmed, decidedly less anxious about it, though they still delighted in theorizing.

Lucifer was smart in how he played his cards, Michael would give him that. The series of minds that were milling about all looked, as Michael assumed, like Lucifer, but none of them were in the same place together. Every demon who saw one believed it was the true Lucifer, and they all acted, spoke, looked, and seemed the same. Michael alone was able to tell them apart. He knew the personalities of each of them just as well as he knew his own.

Michael was certain that the figure in the Cage was his brother, but this too was indeed that most beloved brother. It made no earthly sense.

In the high, clear air of Heaven in the Silver City, when Michael and Lucifer were still brothers, they both had learned everything about each other. Growing up together it seemed inevitable that they would each know all the minds of the other. They had at one point tried to name them all, but decided that it didn’t matter, for they could be told apart without names and it seemed silly. Like naming one’s fingers, or the ears of a cat, or the tail of a dog. Names were unnecessary to the two who knew each individual mind so well. It was simply easier to communicate without naming them, as their names were used mostly by God in those times anyways.

Michael nearly reached out to one of the illusory Lucifer’s, wanting to reveal himself, but he knew that he could not. The news that Michael was here would be spread instantly to the source and he would be set upon by all that were here.

It was a curiosity to Michael that Lucifer saw the need to deceive his flock. He kept them all under the impression that there was only one of him, when surely it was common knowledge that there were many more than that.

The Prince looks around, satisfied he’s made his point for now. He can’t act hastily. His plan is still forming in his mind, and he needs to complete it before reaching Lucifer.

He opens up his mind to the thousands of others connected to him, and picks up on a prayer. A good distraction while he waits for events to unfold.

The prayer is from a young boy around ten years old. His mother has just died, and he’s praying for her soul to reach God in Heaven. The boy is not scared, nor is he a true believer, but Michael hears his prayer all the same, for it is his prayer the boy repeats.

The Prince pauses just outside the realm of vision, his eyes wide as he takes in how young the boy is. He knows this soul as he knows all others, and can see a long life ahead of him. Michael is rarely called upon these days unless someone is in fear of death, or wants some other favor from him. His prayers are those of protection and are used to beg for safe passage to Heaven or luck in endeavors carried out in God’s name. Even so, now more than ever, he rarely hears his prayers, much less hears the prayers of the living, and it has been many years since the church properly observed Michaelmas which would have been his one chance to see the living as they lived and not when they were scared or close to death.

He’s struck hard by the boy’s plight and touched deeply by the fact that he’s being prayed to by a real, living, breathing, human with long years before them. He’s never had a human friend that talked to him throughout their life, telling him things, asking probing questions they ought not ask but do anyways. So many angels have had that, and, though Michael would never admit to it, he was jealous of that bond with humans. All Michael could do for them was keep them safe in death.

“O glorious St. Michael, Guardian and Defender of the Church of Jesus Christ, come to the assistance of the Church,” the boy pauses. “Specifically of my mom,” the boy adds in cautiously, bringing a small smile to Michael’s face.

“Against which the powers of Hell are unchained.” He wavers on the word ‘Hell’ like he’s deciding if it is okay to say it or not.

“Guard with thy special care her august visible head?”

Michael lets out a chuckle at the confusion over the words and sits beside the boy on the floor of the spartan room.

“And obtain for him? and for us that the hour of triumph may steadily arrive. O glorious Archangel St. Michael, watch over us during life, defend us against the assaults of the demon,” the boy pauses, drops his head, muttering, “which demon?”, then sighs as an old man would and continues. “Assist us especially at the hour of death, obtain for us a favorable judgement and the happiness of beholding God face to face to endless ages. Amen!”

The boy opens his eyes, hands still clasped together and looks around the empty room.

“Mr. Michael?” he calls, hope in his voice clearly audible. When no one answers him, the boy sighs to himself, dropping his hands, and leaning back.

He looks up to the urn that holds his mother and mutters to it bitterly:  “Told you he wouldn’t come.”

“Such little faith for one who knows that prayer so well,” Michael comments, revealing himself to the young boy.

The kid jumps in the air, nearly capsizing his mother.

“Whoa!” he cries out, falling back onto his behind.

Michael crouches, staying put, the human vessel he was wearing that of a boy only a few years older than the one in front of him. He spreads out imaginary wings that look like they’re made of pure light, but somehow do not hurt his eyes. The light fades to reveal blue wings with gold encrusted feathers.

“You wanted to talk to me?” he asks, sitting down cross legged.

The boy stammers and points, finally forcing out a rough, “Who are you!”

“I am Michael,” the prince answers.

“What? No way!” the boy cries.

“Yes I am,” Michael argues playfully, smiling brightly at the boy. He hasn’t had to convince someone of his true identity in ages. He hasn’t had a reason to talk to humans in the longest time. He values this opportunity, and is elated to have it. A happy experience is one sorely needed right now.

“My name is Michael too, so just because it’s your name too, doesn’t mean that you’re that Michael,” the boy sniffs haughtily.

Michael bursts out laughing. He’s scarcely been questioned like this save for certain brothers who questioned everything. It’s a refreshing experience, but one that also makes him regret all the time he could have used to speak with humans. He learned what he knew through his vessels, but that wasn’t any way to learn, and it only left him bereft and lonely. Broken and hollowed out, as God intended all his angels to be.

“Do you need proof?”

The boy nods firmly, crossing his arms and looking suspicious.

Michael smirks and returns the look, his wings flaring out behind him. The boy barely jumps, but glares fiercely.

Michael stands up slowly, pulling his wings in so he doesn’t disturb anything, and holds a hand out for the boy’s own.

“Take my hand,” Michael invites. “I’ll show you proof.”

The boy glares suspiciously at his namesake, and reluctantly stands, taking Michael’s hand. The Prince takes flight immediately and stops moving when they’re in the middle of the ocean, on a cruise ship. The boy nearly jumps into Michael’s arms when he sees where he’s been brought and Michael keeps a steadying hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Is this proof enough for you, Michael?” the angel asks, smugly smiling down at him.

The boy nods furiously, clinging to Michael’s shirt.

“Yeah, I believe you, I believe you, now take me back,” he cries, looking around before closing his eyes and praying to be back at home when he opens them again.

He gets his wish and when his eyes are open once more, his mother’s urn is on the floor where he left it and the world is righted.

“That was crazy!” he exclaims, releasing Michael and plopping down on the floor. He stretches out a hand to touch the top of his mother’s urn like he’s saying hello.

“It was, wasn’t it? I could have missed,” Michael jokes, ruffling the boys hair.

The boy frowns suddenly at Michael when he implies that they could have landed somewhere else. Even if he didn’t know what they would have hit had Michael ‘missed’ it was a scary thought all the same.

Michael chuckles softly, pulling his hand away.

“Why did you call me here, Michael?” he asks the boy.

“Oh,” comes the soft reply, harsh features molding into softer, sadder tones. “Well, my mom taught me that prayer, so I figured I’d try ta talk to you. Is she… in Heaven?”

Michael tips his head to the side and pulls on all his memories of the souls he has weighed and judged recently, but before he answers, he’s interrupted.

“I don’t want to know if she really is there,” the boy admits. “It’s bad, I know, but I still believe that we’re reborn. Even with you really here, knowin’ that she’s on Earth somewhere, happy and safe sounds better than being in Heaven. I mean, she’d get lonely up there, wouldn’t she? She’d want something to do, and, and until I can be with her there too, I don’t want her to be there alone. She’s gotta wait for me. She said that she would.”

Michael’s head is spinning. He’s never heard someone speak to him about not wanting to be in Heaven. He rarely sees someone during their life period. This boy has so many years ahead of him, and Michael is only privy to the last hour. He comes into people’s lives as they are leaving it, not as they are about to embark on it. This whole situation is reversed and it is extremely disconcerting. Everything these past days has been disconcerting.

“You want her to be happy here, on Earth, before going to Heaven with you, so that she won’t be lonely?” Michael clarifies, trying to wrap his mind around this concept.

“Yeah. If she’s busy she won’t miss me as much, right? That’s what dad keeps saying.” He puffs out his chest and speaks in a deeper voice, imitating his father. “Keep busy and you won’t have time to miss her.”

Michael nods absently.

“What if you die first and she’s not there in Heaven for you?” Michael asks.

“Then I will ask to be reborn,” the boy answers. “It might take a thousand lifetimes, but eventually, she’s going to be there when I am, and then we can enjoy Paradise together.”

Michael smiles sadly, struck by a reminder of the forgotten Winchester who had the same wish.

“Yes, Michael,” the angel says. “It may take a long time, but I will make sure that you and your mother are together again. When you’re both ready.”

The boy beams happily at Michael.

“Really?”

“Really. I’ll see you then, mini-me.”

Michael kisses the forehead of the young boy, and lays him back against the floor, having put him gently to sleep. When he wakes up, it will all seem a dream, but Michael will keep his promise.

With that in mind, Michael absconds. His presence is being invoked elsewhere, and they are a pressing concern.

 

Castiel is there when Michael arrives at the seance held in his name. The conjuror dare not yet know who it was she was calling forth, but there would be restitution when she found out upon whom she was treading.

“I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle.”

Michael scoffs, moving behind her, Castiel wringing his hands worriedly as he watches her speak. His wings are shivering unhappily, and he glances between Pamela, her hand on Michael’s mark, and Michael himself. The Prince paces between his vessel and the psychic, Castiel just beyond her other shoulder.

The TV in the background flickers on and Dean’s eyes lock onto it. Michael gives Castiel a stern look that ceases his anxious fluttering, and stands at Dean’s back, resting a celestial hand on his shoulder.

“Turn back!” Castiel bursts as Pamela continues, breaking her litany.

Michael growls, a shiver running up Dean’s spine.

“Castiel?” the psychic confirms, tilting her head.

“Yes, Castiel is my name, please turn back,” he asks of her, whispering as softly as he can so as not to hurt her. She has good ears and a knack for hearing that Castiel praises God for giving her. She will be hurt if she continues, this he knows.

“Sorry, Castiel. I don’t scare easy,” she replies, and Castiel pales, looking up to Michael’s glare.

With a swipe of his hand, he sends Castiel far away and moves to put his hand over hers on Dean’s shoulder.

“Castiel?” Dean asks, and it’s not for confirmation that he questions her, but an innate knowledge that it was not Castiel who brought him back.

Michael’s true name is seared into the soul of the righteous man, and he is one of two creatures in existence that knows it. He is on par with God in this way.

And with the Devil.

“It’s name,” Pamela answers him, “It’s whispering to me, warning me to turn back.”

“Follow Castiel’s advise,” the Prince hissed softly. He has more experience dealing with humans and influencing them through whispers on the wind than any angel. The static of the TV is a perfect cover for his suggestion, but she sees through him and does not heed it.

“I conjure and command you, show me your face,” she begins again, growing stronger in conviction and volume with each repetition of the line.

Michael slides his hand down her forearm as she speaks, and Bobby suggests that they stop, responding to the unnatural increase of the room’s temperature as Michael cuts Pamela off from the room so that he may reveal himself.

“I almost got it,” she barks, repeating the litany with variation and determination.

The fire of the candles on the table blaze with unnatural height, and Michael grips onto the shoulders of the psychic, revealing to her soul his true visage, clad in armor made of black holes, and wings made of galaxies of eyes staring at her and mouths that gape open to a view of the expanse of time, terrible and immense, abstract and transdimensional in a way she will never know again.

Her soul screams, seeing layers of image upon image, Michael’s ‘face’ too much for her to handle. Her mouth and eyes open and her scream shakes the table, her eyes burning out like the candles. Blood drips from her eyes as tears and Michael takes his hands from her shoulders letting her slump to the table as the candlefire dims once again.

She weeps for her lost eyes, and Dean holds her hand. Michael smiles at his worried face, thinking it is one singular to him.

Michael sighs, put upon, and takes a step, transporting himself to halt before Castiel.

“Brother,” he greets coldly.

Castiel bows his head and quakes under the feeling of Michael’s disapproving glare.

“How did this happen, Castiel?” Michael snaps, pacing back and forth furiously, only half paying attention to what Castiel is saying and doing.

He was so close to an epiphany. What the boy had said about being reborn, and waiting to be in Heaven with his mother… it was an interesting prospect. He had planned to make Lucifer suffer just enough to make Father feel guilty and take pity on him, although it seems there may need to be another part to it. Michael had attempted to redeem the souls of Fallen before, and was stopped by His will, but he had not tried redeeming the souls of Fallen without Grace.

Castiel is still saying something and Michael holds up a hand to silence him, freezing. .

An angel without Grace was human and human souls were Michael’s domains. He decided who would ascend and who would fall. He redeemed the souls of monsters from Purgatory and sent them up into Heaven had he the need. He could pluck souls from Hell and send them up into Heaven straight past the Pearly Gates, no questions asked.

A human… Lucifer would never agree to it. He hated humans more than he surely hated Michael. He wouldn’t unless it was that or death… and even then he might choose death.

The sounds of Lucifer’s wails from the Cage in Hell come back to Michael for a second and his eyes widen.

Castiel is still frozen, worried, but Michael’s mouths all split into grins and his wings flush a vibrant blue. He turns crazed eyes to Castiel and stalks up to him, hoisting him into the air and spinning them about. He crushes a few of Castiel’s ribs in the tight embrace, but he fixes them as soon as Castiel is on the ground again.

“I’m getting him back, Castiel! He could never argue with my logic!” Michael exclaims, furiously happy and delirious in his delight.

He forces himself to calm down and looks at Castiel, taking his jaw in one hand.

“Take care of Dean Winchester. I will have more orders for you soon. Tell him it was you who raised him, and that you are an angel. I will be back.”

Michael leaves the dazed Castiel with those words and returns to Hell to speak again with Alistair.

The sultry air clings to the back of his vessel’s throat as he flashes through the dark realm, his feet hardly touching the ground.

Hell permits him in without pausing to ask Alistair, and the angel, panting excitedly, embraces his old friend.

“Alistair,” he breathes against the slick skin of the demon’s neck. “Punisher. Wise, old friend. Tell me I’m not crazy when I say I’ve found a way to bring my brother back into the fold of my wings.”

Alistair’s lips pull back into a grin and he sets Michael arms length away, looking him over.

“You certainly seem _enthused_ enough to make me believe such a wild claim,” he drawls, patting an arm.

“I’ll make him human! God has granted me domain over all His human creatures, and if Lucifer becomes one of them, he shall be again under my care and I can have him home,” the Prince gushes, wings twitching excitedly.

The demon nods, saying, “How will you get him to agree to become human? To split with his Grace? Our prideful Lord and Saviour wouldn’t dare think to do that.”

Several of Alistair’s eyes roll upwards and settle again on Michael, his mentor, and oldest friend, finally coming apart at the seams for loss of his siblings. Someone had once so eloquently put it to him as, ‘the autonomy of his life taken away and explained through metaphors and fate.’

The questions make Michael’s grin grow truly manic and insane, his whole body surging forward and against Alistair’s, all eyes focused solely on the demon’s head held in his hands.

“That’s just it. It will be his only choice,” Michael intones calmly, but his voice is tipped to the brim with a mad certainty that he can’t fail.

Alistair nods jovially, and smiles to his friend, hoping that he could use this to his advantage. The poor Prince had always nursed too much of a loose tongue, especially around Alistair whom he’d known longer than most.

“I’ll need to get things started…” the Prince murmurs to himself, seeming much too like his twin brother at the moment.

Alistair thumps him on the shoulder and waves him off then, receding into his pocket of Hell in hopes only to escape Michael’s mad plan. He’d like to get his dearly beloved and freckled boy back as well, but demons rarely prospered when angels were about their plotting.

 

Michael spares no time, taking hold of the fabrics created by time and moving backwards to the year of his choosing. He settles on a simpler time when Alistair was younger, and not yet in Michael’s favor. Hell is dank and dark and breathing, but that peculiar corner is not here yet.

Hell screams when it’s side is torn open by the sturdy hands of a General and the attached limb is rejected and poisoned. It curdles and seethes in the sulfur laden air, sucking in as much darkness as it can.

More than created, the Cage is birthed from Famine. The Lonely Prince of Heaven draws on the horseman’s power, the influence he’s always felt, and uses it to force the Cage into existence as a gaping maw of raw need and hunger. It’s first meal is Michael’s own fear. His longing, hiraeth, anxiety, worry, depression, doubt, sorrow, melancholy, hatred, resentment, envy, and above all his Pride. The Cage greedily sucks it all in and weaves it’s breathing walls of torture and terror designed to feed and warp, ensnaring those who come near and creating for them of their own cycle of profound dread that in turn feeds the Cage and spurs it’s ministrations.

But the Cage is made for one prisoner, and one alone.

Heaven’s General speeds back to the almost present, and murmurs to Castiel that when he speaks of freeing Lucifer the Seals will be breaking. He leaves Death to lie still and chained by Lucifer, but War and Pestilence he greets, smiling and jovial, to tell them of the coming end. He does not near Famine, does not even spare him a second thought.

The next stop is finally the one he has been waiting for. His brickwork is laid and he wants his prize.

Los Angeles, the city of Angels, welcomes the Prince of Heaven into it’s sin washed streets with Grace, and do not impede him when he enters the house of the Devil, shedding the demon and it’s body, shifting gracefully into the human realm and puppeting a version of himself that is safe to view for those not made of the sterner stuff.

“Lucifer,” he calls in a mockery of an amiable tone, striding through the crowds of demons without a  second thought. There has been no thinking at all since the pieces fell into place for him. He’s been mad with self-love, pride, and greedy eagerness to enfold his brother once more. His skin trembles with it, and his stride is uneven and dangerous.

“Imposter,” he calls again, a crazed grin splitting his face with more terror and glee than any demon.

“You’ve sat too long in the throne of my brother, and I can prove you are not the Light Bringer,” the General accuses, stepping right up to what he knows can only be his brother.

Lucifer shines brighter than every star Michael has ever seen, and when he rises from his chair to meet his brother, Uriel himself could not have painted a more perfect picture. Lip curled back, eyes narrowed, and stance stronger than even Michael’s. He is confused by this sudden appearance, but plays it off well and stands his ground. Surely something is hissed through grit teeth, but it dies in the air, never making it to Michael’s ears; cast easily off.

The gathered crowds are silent and still, watching what they perceive as a supernova and a black hole, waiting to see which can overpower the other.

“This has gone on long enough. The true King of Hell is gone, and I am to empty this throne of your sad impersonation of Lucifer,” Michael triumphantly announces, stepping into reach of Lucifer, still bearing his armor.

“And to prove that you are not him, I will give you a chance.”

Hands deftly move to drop the armor away from Michael’s chest, and he brings forth his lance, shoving it into the hands of his brother whose composure is starting to slip in face of killing Michael.

He had never wanted to do it, and he never would. _Exactly,_ something inside Michael hisses, looking over the calculating gaze of his brother. _No one but I knows you like this. Not those angels you seduce, not the humans you tempt, or the demons you manipulate. I alone know your only move. The one action bound by l o v e and not Pride._

The Prince of Heaven stands back to offer Lucifer no resistance. It is known well that Lucifer has boasted of wanting to kill him. He’s made speeches and promises, and the demons believe wholeheartedly that it was a promise he meant to keep. The word of an angel is, of course, not one the hoards are willing to trust, but this mad display of insanity is one that they will take seriously.

The Light Bringer’s hands quiver on the shaft of Michael’s lance, and he takes aim at the Prince’s chest, extending the point forward until it meets the soft flesh of Michael’s current form. A blow to the base of the lance and it would shoot through the weak chest and kill him. This would mean the end, if Michael died here. The ultimate display of strength would be to kill him and take Heaven, for without it’s General Heaven was practically open for a child to attack and conquer.

“Strike me down,” Michael hissed.

A beat of heavy silence, deafening to Michael for an internal screech of triumph.

Lucifer’s grip on the lance breaks and it clatters to the floor with a loud clang, Lucifer stumbling a step back. His face is laden with hatred, sunken in with resent and the knowledge that he has nothing left to do. He hasn’t an ace in the hole that Michael couldn’t break. He’s been played, and there’s no where to go from here.

Michael’s grin splits his head and an arm snaps out to grab Lucifer by the hair, dragging him down the steps and _down_ into the depths of Hell where Fallen claw at Lucifer’s feet and ankles, causing him to squirm and curse.

The Prince hoists his brother up into his arms with a mad grin and pulls him into a kiss. The morning star bites at him and fights until Michael’s long fluid wings wrap around him and force him flush against his chest, the kiss tainted with angelic blood from where Lucifer bit into him. A moan leaves him and the Fallen around them circle, waiting for Lucifer to be dropped onto the ground where they can have at him.

Finally, his brother melts against Michael’s chest and kisses back, threading his fingers through hair that is so like his own as matching lips slick and slide against each other.

The Prince sways, his arms full of the Adversary and he takes a step forward, and yet another when it seems his movements do not bother his brother.

Soon they’re breaching the edge of the Cage and time swims around them, two of Michael’s wings pumping swiftly and moving them backwards to when the Cage was first created.

Suddenly the languid kiss turns violent again and eyes begin to follow them as they move inwards, jaws slavering, and groaning their hunger for the sweet taste of fear and pain from the most brightly burning being in existence. Lucifer thrashes in Michael’s iron embrace, struggling to get away from the edge of the Cage, but it’s no use. They are brought steadily closer to the center of the Cage, to the black, jagged edge of an open wound that never heals, only festering until it becomes everything.

“There are two ways out,” Michael whispers to his brother.

“A spell with the four rings, 66 seals, and a righteous man. The other is permanent. One condition. You leave as a human.”

Then he casts his brother into the Cage and seals him in, striding back to Earth to finish his business.

 

The next two years blur past Michael in a rush of colour and impatience. He focuses on his duties as an angel and manages Heaven. He doesn’t allow himself the space to think, even about the murders of his siblings. He’s killed so many of them himself he wonders why the sudden reminder of their mortality bothers the others. The problem catches his attention when he hears prayers in the voice of his demon.

When he arrives, Sam has his hand outstretched towards a pinned Alistair.

Michael snarls and almost crushes Sam’s soul. He refrains however, for multiple reasons, the chief reason being that Sam plays a part in his plan, and instead wraps a steady hand around Alistair and gives him the comfort of hatred in his last moments, allowing Sam to kill him. Castiel knows better than to mention to anyone that he saw Michael snarl as his friend is killed.

He’s been through loss before, and it’s nothing he’s new to, but this one makes him angry. However, he is willing to overlook it for the damage it did to both Sam and Dean. He wants both of them hollowed out.

Michael leaves that where it falls and ignores again the happenings of the Winchesters until Zacharael approaches him about the prophecy and The End. Begrudgingly, he tells Zacharael that allowing Lucifer to be freed is a goal that Heaven had planned, and allows him to finish the rest.

The end is a good cover for the last act of his play with Lucifer. The finale will be when Lucifer chooses to put himself into Michael’s domain as a human.

A few hundred years in the cage has weakened Lucifer to a softer state. When he arrives again on Earth he moves to strike on one of Cain’s other descendents with the calm, heavy heart of a war veteran. That has long been their difference. Lucifer thinks the war is over. Michael is still fighting it.

The General moves his pawns about the board with and ease of grace that most would kill for as Lucifer dances below with his schemes and humans. It’s when Famine is brought into it that things really start to get rough.

It’s a dirty move on Lucifer’s part, and it drags a low ugly sound out of Michael’s mouth when he first senses Famine near his vessel. He protects Dean from Famine’s touch as long as he can without Dean noticing, but when he goes face to face against the Horseman, Michael has no choice but to drop his defenses.

To his utter delight, however, Dean is dead. Hollowed. Empty. Famine cannot see a craving to exploit, especially in the absence of Hell and Alistair. Dean is a beautiful husk, ready for Michael to take.

During the swan song, however, it is not Dean that Michael wears into Stull Cemetery. It is his half brother Adam. Not quite as nice a fit as Dean would have been, but to Michael it does not matter. There are desires still shoving against the angelic creature inhabiting the vessel of this young boy, but Michael squashes them.

Lucifer is still prattling on about walking off the chessboard which has always been his selling point. Finally, Michael is buying.

They circle, waiting for the other to make a move. Michael keeps up his act perfectly, a flawless image of Heaven’s one and only General and the Good Son everyone always thinks him to be, but inside he is _grinning_.

Then Dean’s Impala rolls up and all Hell breaks loose. This wasn’t part of the plan. Dean was not supposed to be here now that the plan had moved on without him. Castiel and that Singer again show, and Michael starts to panic. He was supposed to defeat his brother again here and put him back into the Cage until he followed through with Michael’s plan, but this was wrong.

He is about to advance on Castiel when he is hit with a flaming bottle. His body erupts in flames and as the vessel dies he leaves the field, transported to Heaven.

He is returned again to his private garden where he is not alone.

“Father,” Michael breathes, unable to move.

A rumble shakes the air around them and Michael cowers, ashamed and lashed, his mistake of free will brought to his attention.

“I thought--” he starts, but it silenced again.

Every emotion he’s ever felt is pulled to the surface at once and then shoved away. He understands. Nothing he has ever done was of his own. He has no feelings that were not put there by God, and he is truly only a character in a play. He has lines and directions, and while he may give the illusion of free will and movement and life, he has none.

Michael, thus cowed, nods, bows, and is returned to the field where he is thrown into the Cage with his brother.

 

It is a blessing.

 

 


	3. Epilogue

_It was for nought._

_All of it._

_God sees all and knows all. He knew there was a loophole in His banishment, but that was nothing. An impossibility, this He knew better than any._

_But I did not know._

_I was a fool._

_Thinking for myself and thinking I had beaten God._

_This is my punishment. I had thought I had free will, but I did not. I thought I could change the ending to this sad tale, but that was a pipe dream that God crushed under his mighty fist._

_My brother Lucifer has yet to give up hope of a new ending. I am not so illusioned._

 

It was a year in the seventies, or possibly the eighties, Michael did not know. He had spent time smoothing the jagged edges of his plot, walking amongst ages to sooth the inconsistencies and awkward clashes of sharp improbability that he had brought about.

The cult of Azazel’s was sorted, the timeline of Lucifer’s incarceration mended and straightened, Castiel’s troubling fall and rise and fall again left to his own hand. All things were righted so as to now flow as a series of books would. Chuck had been agreeable to Michael’s terms once he had explained the circumstances, and the author, with only mild _persuasion_ , kept Michael’s interference from the plots of his stories and wrote the ending to the whole sorry tale.

Of course, Michael should have known it would not have been that easy, and Castiel’s stubborn stain of an existence continued to push on the story, God seeming happy to merrily let the damned young thing muck things up. It was less concerning now than it had been to him years ago, and his own fondness for Castiel prevailed, but Lord knew he was simply now more than ever… dissatisfied with the lot of existence. His blossoming and frankly constrictive love and Faith in the Lord Almighty was certainly still with him, but his awareness of the infallibility of what he is to feel and not feel weighs on him more and more with each second.

He never had a choice in loving God or Lucifer, or the rest. He never had a choice in despising cocky sinners, or a choice in relishing the punishment of said sinners when they deserved it. His emotions had been predetermined, and he hadn’t cared to see it until he’d thought himself a being of free will.

He spoke to Dean Winchester of his brother and Sam, and told him, “Free will is an illusion.”

He had learned that the hard way, and Dean would too. Every step he made would bring him back to Michael, bring him back to Death, and God, and Heaven. Castiel would be his deciding factor. The blood of Cain inside him had put him forever on the path to killing his brother. Either through a gunshot, a knife, or leaving him, Dean would kill Sam. Castiel would be there to guide the way until Dean was well past the point of no return.

Someone they had in common, he and Dean, that had told them both about the seals, another metaphor, and tried to hurry them on the road towards the end. Michael would always be ready for it now. He had been broken into his molded form at last.

He will kill his brother.

What goes unsaid, there in that room, is that in both cases - when Dean kills Sam, and when Michael kills Lucifer - both will perish in the act. A touch of mercy to their fates. A drop of irony for the story. And perhaps the death that awaits them won’t be entirely physical, but at that time, the pain will not touch them, and oblivion will be a gift.


End file.
